


Split Infinities

by bellatemple



Category: Haven (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst, Five things-ish, Gen, Past Drug Addiction, emotionally abusive parental figures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26781625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellatemple/pseuds/bellatemple
Summary: "When my dad died, the state tried to declare me an orphan. And just before the paperwork went through, my dear sweet mom showed up to reunite the family."Several glimpses into what Duke's life might have looked like, if someone other than his mother had decided to take him in.
Comments: 51
Kudos: 18





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Currently no archive warnings apply. I cannot promise they won't in future chapters but will update the tags and warnings accordingly. 
> 
> This fic is built of glimpses into alternate timelines. None will be fully fleshed out here, but I reserve the right to run with them in the future if more stories occur to me. I'm also happy to let any of you run with them, if stories occur to you, too. ;D

They gathered on the dock where the coast guard had landed after rescuing the boy: the brothers, the detective, the coroner, and the journalist. The boy himself sat huddled in a blanket not far away, stammering through a statement with a uniformed officer. Yes, his father went into the water. No, he hadn't come back up. No, he didn't know why his father had insisted they head out fishing that night. No, there was no one else to call, his father was his only family. 

"Let's make this quick," the coroner said. "That boy's so blue he looks like he drowned, too." 

"What should we do with him?" one of the brothers asked. "Hand him over to the state?" 

"Who knows what will become of him then," the other brother said, voice low and wary. 

"He needs a family," the reporter said. "There's no reason he should end up like — like his father." 

They all exchanged glances. None of them were eager to volunteer. Finally, a voice spoke up. 

"I'll take him."


	2. Teagues

"Really, Dave?" Duke flipped the newspaper shut and gave his uncle a bemused look. "El niño?"

"Get your feet off my desk," Dave said, whacking him in the ankle with his notebook. "And what would you say to explain instant fog and localized hurricane force winds?" 

Duke spread his hands. "'Local Woman Uses Weather-Control Affliction to Take Out Conman'." He dropped his hands, absently shoving at his sleeves. "Pithy, eye catching, and as an added bonus, _true_." 

"Don't let the Guard hear you talk like that, boy," Vince said, looking up from the papers he was sorting through. "That tattoo isn't magic, you know." 

Duke traced the black lines etched into his forearm, even as he rolled his eyes. "Relax, Vince. No one's bled on me. No one's _going_ to bleed on me. The Crocker Curse died with Dad, and the Guard can shove their paranoia right up their —" 

"Language," Dave said, swiping at Duke with his notebook again. "You just here to harass your uncles, Duke, or were you going to actually get some work done?" 

"Harass you," Duke said, all wide eyes and innocence. "Definitely." 

"Well. When you're done you can make yourself useful and go make friends with that new FBI agent in town." 

Vince snapped his eyes up at that, and Duke slowly lowered his feet and sat up straight. 

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Dave?" Vince asked, voice not quite as affable and befuddled as before. Duke suppressed a shiver. 

"Of course," Dave said, unintimidated. "She could use a friend her own age." 

"She's got Nathan." 

Duke swallowed a snort and raised his hand. "What's so special about this woman?" 

Vince and Dave didn't answer for a long moment. They were busy having an eyebrow fight, the way they always did when they couldn't agree on what Duke needed to know. 

Their longest, most vicious eyebrow fight had happened three years ago, after they heard of the first new trouble to surface in town. It had ended with Duke learning about his family's curse, and being inducted as a provisional member of the Guard. 

This one looked like it might just match that one. 

"Hey," Duke said, when he got tired of watching their faces twitch. He waved his hand between them. "I thought we had an agreement on this. The new rule is 'tell Duke the truth so he doesn't become a serial killer or get dead', remember?" 

Vince seemed to deflate. "Of course. My apologies, Duke." He shrugged. "Old habits, you know." 

Duke nodded, an acknowledgement rather than forgiveness. "Spill." 

Vince looked around, then at Dave. "Would you . . .?" 

Dave shook his head. "They're not developed yet." 

"Damn you and your devotion to analog. He won't' believe it without seeing!" 

"Hey!" Duke snapped his fingers. "Try me!" 

Vince stared at Dave. Dave swallowed. "Do you, uh, remember Lucy, Duke? From when you were a boy?" 

Duke frowned and nodded. "Of course." 

"You remember," Vince said slowly, "that she was very, very special?" 

Duke shrugged. "She didn't treat me like shit when Dad went weird, if that's what you mean." 

"Ah." Vince cleared his throat. "Yes. Hmm." 

"Oh for —" Dave threw his hands up and marched across the office to the archives. He pulled out a folder labeled simply "the woman" and set it down in front of Duke. Duke looked between his two uncles, then opened the folder. 

The first picture was familiar, though Duke hadn't thought about it in years. It was the one from the beach, the morning of the Colorado Kid's death. Lucy stood there, tall and aloof, just as Duke remembered her. He let his fingers brush over the blurred image of his own face, then turned the page. 

Lucy again, this time in some kind of old nurse's uniform, leaning on the fender of Vince's beloved car. With a much, much younger Vince Teagues leaning next to her, looking smitten. Duke looked up at Vince. Vince was looking away. 

"Keep going," Dave said softly. 

The next image was clearly much older, and poorly reproduced, but Duke still recognized Lucy anyway. She wore her hair in a bob, and a short skirt with rolled stockings. In the next photo, she was in a frock right out of a period drama, dark hair pinned under a hat. 

"What is this?" Duke asked. 

"It's Lucy," Dave said. 

"And Sarah," Vince said, voice low. 

"And now," said Dave, "Audrey Parker of the FBI." 

Duke looked between them and swallowed. "But. Lucy . . . and my dad. . . ."

"And Sarah and your grandfather," Vince said. 

"That's why you should make friends," said Dave. 

"That's why he should _avoid her_." Vince's voice rose and shook. "Do you think I could stand it, Dave? To lose either of them that way —"

"This isn't about _you_ , Vincent," Dave said, but Duke cut him off by raising his hand again, and pointing to the photo of Lucy. 

"Does she know?" 

"No," Vince said. "She never does." 

"Have you _told_ her?" 

"It's no good," said Dave. "She has to figure it out on her own." 

" _Why?_ " 

"It wouldn't work, otherwise," Vince said, sounding helpless. Duke opened his mouth, but this time Dave cut him off. 

"We tried. When Lucy first arrived. She nearly left again, right there." 

"She's stubborn, Duke," Vince said. "That never changes. She must be . . . handled. With great care." 

Duke stared at them, mouth pressed into a firm line. "Like you've 'handled' me." He stood, snatching up the clipping of the Colorado Kid. 

"Where are you going?" Vince barked. 

"To go 'handle' Agent Parker." 

"Duke, no!" Dave cried. "We need her! You can't —" 

Duke spun, glaring at him. "I'm not going to hurt her! And as long as I'm not active, she won't hurt me either, right?" He looked between them, then started for the door. "But she deserves to know the truth." 

"Duke Thelonious Crocker!" Vince shouted. Duke froze, his hand on the doorknob. 

"Don't say it," he whispered. It wouldn't help. 

"I _order you_ not to tell Audrey Parker the truth about who she is." 

Duke's shoulders jerked, the weight of that order landing on him like a heavy snowfall. "Yes sir," he said, soft and bitter. "Uncle Vincent." 

He didn't have to turn around to see Dave glaring Vince down, though that wouldn't do any good, either, not since Vince decided to use his Guard connections to keep Duke on a leash. There was no trouble behind the words as far as Duke knew, but it felt like there might as well be, anyway. There was just the threat of what the Guard would do to a loose Crocker. 

All Vince had to do was say the word, and the Guard would take Duke down. Vince would feel bad about it, Duke knew. He'd never forgive himself. 

But that wouldn't stop him. 

Duke slipped through the door, rolling his shoulders the moment he was out of Vince's sight. He swung his leg over the old Triumph his uncles had given him when he turned 21, squeezing and twisting the handles gently as he decided what to do. Finally, he started the bike up and aimed her towards the police station. 

Dave was right. From the sound of it, Audrey would absolutely need a friend. Someone to make sure she didn't get caught in a leash of her own.


	3. Wuornos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of addiction and drug abuse in this chapter

"Sit," Duke said, and set a bottle firmly down onto the bar. He still had dirt caked under his fingernails. 

"You sure you should. . . ." Nathan trailed off at the look on Duke's face. And sat. 

"I know my vices, Nate. Alcohol isn't one of them." Duke cracked the bottle open and poured a couple fingers into each glass with the ease and precision of a professional. Which, Nathan supposed, was what he was now, ever since he'd gotten back from rehab and Bill had handed him the deed to the bar. 

That was how life worked for Duke: he fucked up, he came home, and people just _handed_ him things. 

"We just buried Dad," Duke was saying, holding out his glass. "In a cooler. In chunks. So so help me, Nate, you are going to sit here and we are going to drink this bottle of his favorite scotch and reminisce until you'd swear you could feel again." 

"Fuck off, Duke," Nathan said. And raised his glass to tap it against Duke's, top and bottom, the way they'd been doing it since high school. When Duke had decided he was too cool for a secret handshake, but Nathan had insisted they still had to have their 'brothers thing' anyway. 

That was also how things worked: Duke decided he was done with things, and Nathan hung on to them forever. 

"Eat a dick, Nate," Duke said, completing the little ritual. He lifted his glass towards the ceiling. "To Dad." 

"To the Chief." Nathan sipped the scotch and wished he could still feel it burn down his throat. 

"Seriously?" Duke rolled his eyes. "The man's dead, Nate, you can call him 'Dad'." 

Nathan swirled the scotch in his glass, watching it cling to the sides. "He wasn't, though," he said. Even he hated the tone in his voice. "Wasn't my dad." 

"Well." Duke leaned on the bar. "Hansen's dead, too, so fucking toast him if you want." 

Nathan tossed back the rest of his glass and reached for the bottle. 

"That's the spirit." Duke sipped his by degrees, nursing it carefully. He might protest, but heroin wasn't the only addiction in his genes. Nathan wondered what would happen to him if he fell off the wagon again, now that he couldn't lean on lines like "My dad's the chief of police." 

They kept drinking in silence for a moment, which Nathan savored. Duke had never been very good at quiet. 

That wasn't entirely true, actually. Duke had been very quiet, once. Nathan couldn't say for sure — they'd both only been eight years old — but he had a pretty clear image of Duke shortly after the Chief had brought him home, huddled in the man's uniform jacket, shaking silently on the bathroom floor. 

He'd been very quiet when he'd first come to live with them. Stick thin, wandering the house like a ghost. He hadn't seemed to sleep much, either. Nathan remembered waking up in the mornings before school to the smell of coffee, because Duke was already up and making breakfast. He'd sit down to the bowl of cereal Duke had set out and watch the Chief ruffle Duke's hair and say "thanks, kiddo" and look at Nathan like he was wondering where he'd gone wrong, why Nathan was so useless. 

Apparently the answer was that he'd adopted the wrong kid. He'd gotten it right the second time around, though. 

"You should have come," Nathan said, dragging his eyes up off the bar and his thoughts back from the distant past. "To the beach this morning. I called you, said he was in trouble. You should have come." 

Duke shook his head. "I was working on the apartment upstairs. Didn't hear the phone. Anyway, I already watched one dad die. It was your turn." 

Nathan heard the faint hum of blood through his ears that meant he was clenching his jaw. His dentist was going to kill him. "Maybe you could've talked him down." 

"You're kidding, right?" Duke shook his head. "Audrey's the trouble whisperer, not me." 

"You were his favorite." 

Duke stared at him like he'd announced their father was going to be replaced on the police force by a moose in a hat. 

Nathan nodded, tossing back another big belt of scotch. "You were. He thought you hung the moon." 

"He sent me to rehab," Duke said, and held up two fingers. " _Twice_." 

"Prodigal son." Nathan tapped the bar with his glass. Maybe T.J. had read that bible story today, too. "Always figured you were the son he'd wished he'd had. Turns out, he didn't have me, either." 

"For fuck _sake_ , Nate." Duke scowled and slammed his still mostly full glass on the bar. "You know Dad loved you." 

"Thought I was an idiot." 

"That's because you are." 

Nathan glared.

"You are!" Duke said again. "You thought your trouble was a _nerve_ disorder." 

"The doctors diagnosed it. They gave it a name!" 

"'Idiopathic neuropathy' means 'we don't know what the fuck is going on but maybe this'll keep your insurance happy.'"

"It does not!" 

Duke gave him a knowing look. "Which one of us scored 760 verbal on their SATs?" 

"690 is a good score." Nathan hated when Duke brought up the SATs. "Why didn't you tell me?" 

"That you're an idiot?" 

" _Duke._ " 

"When was I supposed to tell you, man?" Duke shook his head. "When I was high? When I overdosed? Or maybe while you were refusing to visit me in rehab?" 

Nathan felt shame burn where the scotch should be. "Was busy," he muttered. 

"Yeah," Duke said, finally taking a decent sip of his scotch. "You've been busy a lot."

"Duke." Nathan sighed through his nose. "Don't do that." 

"Don't do what?" 

"You could have told us when you lost your job." 

Duke scoffed. 

"You could have told us about Jared." 

"I _really_ couldn't." 

"You could have told us _anything_." 

Duke looked away, his mouth pulled into a grimacing smile. Nathan had been seeing through that mask for years. 

"Why'd you fall off the wagon, Duke?" 

Duke shook his head. Nathan pressed on. 

"Why'd you start using again?" 

Duke tossed back the rest of his scotch. "Because Hannah left you." 

Nathan frowned. "Wh —" 

"Hannah left you. And you lost the ability to _feel_." 

"Duke —" 

"Do you have any idea what I'd give to be numb sometimes, Nate?" 

Nathan shoved back from the bar. His vision tilted a little, the only physical sign that the scotch was starting to go to his head. "Fuck you, Duke." 

Duke looked away. 

"You don't get to blame _me_ for being a junkie!" 

Duke's adams apple bobbed. His chin dipped once. "I'm not. I — Yours was the first." 

"First what?" 

"Trouble. That came back." 

Nathan shook his head. "So?" 

"So I promised Dad. My dad, my biological father. Right before he died. He made me promise to come back here if the troubles came back." 

Nathan wobbled on his feet and sat down. "So . . . that's why you left Providence?" 

"Left the job. Left the boyfriend. Left the six year NA chip. All for dear old Papa Crocker." 

"Your dad was a dick." 

"So was yours." Duke gave him a manic smile. "Hey! Something else we have in common. Dad rescued us both from our dick fathers." 

Nathan refused to let Duke distract him. Refused to _let it go_. "Why didn't you tell me?" 

Duke sighed. "Because I'm an addict, Nathan. And you're an idiot." 

Nathan slowly sat back down. He picked up the bottle of scotch and refilled both their glasses, then picked his up and held it out. "Fuck off, Duke." 

Duke's smile lost its hard edge. He tapped his glass against Nathan's, top and bottom. 

"Eat a dick, Nate."


	4. Verrano

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for mentions of assisted suicide, animal euthanasia, and abortion.

To say that Dwight was totally okay with waiting outside the slaughterhouse while Duke did whatever it was he did inside would not be accurate. Dwight had already had a hectic day, and against his better judgement he'd bonded with little Sophie Benton, so he felt no small amount of responsibility for her continued happiness. Duke was a good guy, Dwight knew that, no matter what his reputation was with the Guard . . . but it was a hell of a reputation. 

And too many people had died already today. 

He listened as well as he could, but slaughterhouses were built thick nad tough by necessity, and Dwight could no more hear what Duke and the girls were doing inside than he would the normal business of a slaughterhouse. He had no idea what was happening inside, and that pissed him right off. 

He paced back and forth in front of the door. It didn't help. 

"Waiting up for me, huh Sasquatch? I'm touched." 

Dwight spun. Duke had come out through another door, apparently, and stood a few feet away, stance wide even as he had his hands tucked deep in the pockets of his denim jacket. Dwight was always a little bit surprised when Duke didn't show up to these things in a white coat. 

It was probably for the best that he didn't take the whole "trouble doctor" thing that literally, though. 

"Well?" Dwight asked. "What'd they decide?" 

Duke shrugged, looking towards the door. "They're going to give your plan a shot. I'm going to get them a couple prescriptions that should help with the cravings. Might ask Mom about seeing if we can get a donation drive going on the down-low, see if a fresh supply of human plasma will help keep the little one from getting that sick again." 

Dwight relaxed muscles he hadn't even realized were tensed. "Thanks, man. Was really worried Frankie might try and, uh. . . ."

"Throw herself on my sword?" Duke grinned humorlessly. "Oddly enough, very few people go for that method of trouble maintenance." 

"I'd be pretty worried about the ones that do." 

Duke shook his head and turned to head for their trucks. "Don't. We send them through Claire first, make sure it's not something antidepressants and therapy can fix." He turned to look back at Dwight over his shoulder. "I don't actually _like_ killing, you know." 

He opened the door to his truck just as the shot rang out. The crossbow bolt struck the door panel just below the window. An inch or two higher, and it would have gone right through the glass and into Duke's ribs. Duke shouted a curse and dove into the dirt. Dwight spun and scanned the trees. 

Whoever was doing the shooting, he was pretty sure they'd stolen his damn crossbow to do it. He supposed he should be thankful they'd known enough not to try with a real gun. 

"Clever!" he shouted, moving to place himself between Duke and the likely location of the shooter. "Let me guess, you're with the Guard?" 

"Fuckers," Duke muttered. Dwight gestured for him to stay down. 

A shape pulled away from the shadows beneath the trees. Dwight recognized her after a moment as Jordan McKee. One of the Guard's more rabid members. He should have guessed. 

"I thought you were supposed to help troubled people," he said. "Not shoot them. Of course, you all shot my daughter, so I guess I shouldn't put anything past you." 

"Your daughter was a mistake," Jordan said. "And _Crocker_ isn't one of us. He's the one trying to wipe us out." 

Duke cursed again. Dwight heard him climbing to his feet behind him. "You couldn't have left my truck out of this?" 

"Stay down, doc," Dwight hissed. 

"Gonna cost a fortune to fix," Duke said, as though Dwight hadn't spoken. He stepped out from behind Dwight with his hands up. "Hey there! Dr. Duke Verrano." He waved one hand and gave Jordan a bright grin. "Your intel's a little outdated. My name hasn't been Crocker for years." 

Jordan wasn't impressed. "Once a Crocker, always a Crocker." 

"That's just wrong," Duke said, shaking his head. "On several levels." Dwight edged backward, using the conversation as cover to reach into the back of his own truck. Jordan might have grabbed his crossbow, but that wasn't the only weapon he carried around with him. 

"I don't kill anyone," Duke was saying. Jordan scoffed. She was having trouble reloading. Crossbows were tricky that way. Duke started to slowly walk towards her, his hands still raised. 

"Okay," he said, shrugging. "You've got me. I've killed people. Willing people. Mentally competent people. Who have no other way of managing their trouble." 

Jordan fumbled the crossbow with a curse as Duke got close. She was terrified of him, Dwight realized. He wondered which stories she'd heard. Who'd told them. If news of the Rev's death at the hands of Detective Parker and what it would do to an already divided Haven had spurred her on. 

"I'm a vet, did you know that?" Duke asked. "A farm vet. I know how and when to put an animal down humanely. My mom's a doctor. We've both studied pharmacology. We can treat most troubles with drugs, and if we can't? If someone's in pain, and their family is in danger, and it's never going to get any better? _That's_ when I use my own trouble." 

Jordan dropped the crossbow, breathing hard. She was tugging at her gloves now. Dwight found his taser and pulled it out, keeping it low and at the ready. He tried to remember what her trouble was. Something about touch, obviously. 

"It doesn't hurt," Duke said. He stopped, just out of arm's reach. "I need blood, yeah, that's how my trouble works. But no more than a drop. We give them a sedative first so they don't feel anything. I can walk you through the whole process, if you like. It's as gentle and peaceful and easy as we can make it." 

"Bullshit." Jordan was shaking. "You can dress it up however you like, Crocker. You can change your name, get fancy degrees. That doesn't change the fact that you're a murderer." 

Duke dropped his hands and shoulders, rolling his gaze towards the sky. "Seriously? Do you picket abortion clinics, too?" 

Dwight winced. Duke just couldn't help putting his foot in it, could he. 

Jordan darted forward, faster than either Dwight or Duke could react, and grabbed Duke by the wrist. Duke dropped like a stone with an animal squeal. 

Ah. Right. McKees had _that_ trouble. 

Jordan sobbed in the back of her throat, but didn't let go of Duke's arm. She squeezed it even as he jerked and twitched in the dirt. Dwight raised his taser, but didn't fire. Even if Duke wouldn't end up getting tased too, electrocuting Jordan would only make her muscles spasm so she held on even tighter. 

"Let him go, Jordan," Dwight called, lowering the taser and tucking it away. He slipped his jacket off as he approached, something to keep between his skin and hers if he had to take her out bodily. 

"He killed her," Jordan said, staring down at Duke. "He deserves this!" 

Shit. It couldn't be a family member, or she wouldn't have a trouble to use on Duke right now. Who had she lost? 

"You heard the doc, Jordan. Everyone he's killed, it was their choice." 

Jordan shook her head. Her fingers had gone white around Duke's wrist. Duke wasn't twitching anymore, which Dwight didn't think was a good sign. 

"Who did he take from you, Jordan?" Dwight asked softly. He was close enough to touch her now. He bent down to retrieve her gloves and held them out to her. "Tell me about her." 

"Tilly." Jordan sniffed hard, trying to hold back tears. "My best friend. Tilly Harker." 

_Oh_. The Harker curse was a nasty one, and one Duke would have known intimately. His step-father and -brother were Harkers. 

"They said it was a suicide," Jordan said, sneering down at Duke. "It _wasn't_. It was _him_." 

Dwight held his jacket open in both hands. She hadn't noticed him getting into position, too busy glaring down at Duke. 

"It could have been both," he said, voice low. "You knew about her trouble?" 

Jordan shook her head. "She had it under control. She never cried, not once. She wouldn't — she'd _never_ —" 

Dwight pounced, wrapping her in his jacket and pulling her away from Duke. She let out a scream like a wild cat, kicking and flailing, but she couldn't reach his bare skin. 

"What's going on?" 

Dwight looked up to see Amelia, the middle Benton girl, staring at him. He risked letting Jordan go with one arm just long enough to dig out his phone and toss it to her. "Call Nathan Wuornos," he said. "Tell him I need back up at the Wilson Road slaughterhouse." He glanced down at Duke, still unconscious in the dirt. "And tell him to bring an ambulance." 

Amelia nodded and darted away. Jordan stopped struggling and hung in Dwight's grip, heaving furious breaths. 

"You picked the wrong side, Hendrickson." 

"No," Dwight said. He set her gently on her feet, braced for her to try to pull away. "No, I didn't, Jordan." 

He looked down at Duke, watched his chest rise and fall with his shallow breaths. 

"You did."


	5. Ripley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No extra warnings needed on this chapter, I don't think. I'll just note that so far this is the one of these little AU-lets I've actually started thinking about expanding upon later. . . .

Audrey couldn't help but stare at the kid, though she could only see him in vague profile through the window to the office she shared with Nathan. Nathan, who hadn't noticed anything weird. Nathan, who still insisted he lived in a normal town, even after getting shot during a very localized, very brief windstorm. 

Nathan, who was reading off the kid's file while Audrey stared. She shook her head and narrowed her eyes at him, trying to refocus. "Sorry, what?" 

"Says his name is Seymour," Nathan said, holding up the paperwork so she could see. Sure enough, under "Name" was written "Seymour Dix". Audrey snorted. 

"Funny man, huh?" 

"He seems to think so." Nathan smirked and turned back to the file. "Was picked up for shoplifting at Lloyd's. That's the grocery store down by the marina. Chief had Stan put him in there." He handed Audrey the file. "Think maybe he's hazing you?" 

"Yeah." Audrey took the file and tapped it on her hand. "Yeah, probably." 

She didn't think the Chief was hazing her. She thought maybe Chief Wuornos saw exactly what she did when she looked at the kid, and knew she'd want to talk to him. 

Audrey waited until Nathan headed off before going into the office. She shut the door behind herself without saying a word to the kid on the couch, just dropped the file on her desk with a _thwack_ and sorted through the other papers until she found the clipping Vince Teagues had given her. 

When she finally looked up at the boy again, she found him staring back, just as intently as she'd been staring at him through the window. She filed that away in her head, along with his filthy, orange and brown striped t-shirt, and hair that looked like it had last been cut using a mixing bowl and some kitchen scissors. 

She flashed him a smile. "So. Seymour, is it?" 

Seymour didn't say a word. His lips were pressed together so tight they were white. 

"Want to tell me what you were doing at Lloyd's?" 

More staring. 

"That's alright." Audrey picked up his file again. "I've got it right here. You picked up three snickers bars, a box of macaroni and cheese, some shoelaces, aaaaand. . . ." She ran her finger down the list and flicked the last item. "Metamucil?" 

Seymour transferred his gaze to the toes of his mud-caked chuck taylors. "Fiber's good for you." 

"Pretty sure you've got about 30 years before you have to start worrying about that, kid." 

Seymour shrugged, pressing his lips together again. Audrey sighed and pulled out her desk chair to sit across from him. 

"I saw you on the beach," she said. "Last week, when I got into town. You were watching the cops investigate the body they found there." 

He didn't look up. 

"I know it was you." She reached over to flick his sleeve. "You were wearing this same shirt. I thought 'that kid must be freezing'." 

Seymour glanced up at her through thick, messy bangs. 

"You stole food," Audrey continued. "Supplies. And you smell like you've been sleeping in a barn." 

Seymour huffed. 

"Have you been sleeping in a barn, Seymour?" 

Seymour mumbled something. It sounded a lot like "not anymore." 

"That's a rough way to grow up," Audrey said. 

Seymour snorted. "I'm 35." 

"Uh huh." Audrey smirked. "And I'm 97." 

Seymour shrugged again. Audrey watched him for a long moment. 

"Let's make a deal," she said. Seymour glanced up at her. "You answer one question for me — truthfully, no matter how weird it sounds — and I'll buy you one thing you need. So long as it's under $20, anyway. I'm not on an expense account anymore." 

Seymour stared at her through his bangs and licked his lips. "What's the question?" 

Audrey shook her head. "Deal first. Then the question. Then the shopping." 

Seymour looked away. "Whatever." 

"Or I could just go." Audrey gestured to the door and leaned towards it. "If you don't want to work with me, I'll go. Leave you here. Alone." 

Seymour kicked the couch and shrugged. "Here's okay. Warm." 

Jesus. This poor kid. 

"Okay." Audrey said, shrugging. She got up to leave. "See you at the next crime scene, then, kid." 

She only took one step before his hand snapped out and snagged her wrist. She stopped and looked down to find him peering at her face. 

"I don't need stuff," he said. 

Audrey disagreed, but nodded anyway. "What do you need, then?" 

Seymour swallowed. "I want to ask you questions, too." 

Audrey sat back down. "That works for me. A question for a question." 

"The truth," Seymour said. "Even if it's weird." 

"Okay." 

"And —" Seymour was sitting up straighter, responding to her giving him bargaining power. "And I go first." 

Audrey crossed her legs and folded her hands over her knee. "Shoot." 

"Who is Agent Howard?" 

Audrey blinked. Hard. She shook her head. "He's a special agent with the FBI. My boss." 

Seymour scowled, looking like he'd been cheated. "You said truth!" 

"That is the truth, Seymour. He assigned me to track down a man in Haven, and after I finished, I decided to stay." 

Seymour slouched down, his arms folded tightly across his chest. The uneasy rapport she'd started to build had crumbled. She kept going anyway. 

"My turn now, right?" she asked. Seymour shrugged. Audrey decided to start with something easy. "What's your real name? Because if it's 'Seymour Dix', I might have to arrest someone for child abuse." 

Seymour choked trying to swallow a laugh. "Duke," he said finally. 

"Duke. . . ." Audrey said, prompting him to add a last name. When he didn't bite, she finished ". . . of Normandy?" 

"You didn't say full name." 

He had her there. "Okay. Your turn again, your lordship." 

"Why'd you leave James?" 

Another one out of left field. Audrey supposed it was her own fault for saying the questions could be weird. "You'll have to be more specific. I've known a lot of Jameses." 

"Cogan," Duke said. His face was screwing up, like he couldn't decide if he wanted to yell or cry. "Why'd you leave your son?" 

He looked too upset to be making things up. Unless he was a very skilled young actor. 

"I don't have a son," Audrey said carefully. Duke punched the couch with a tiny roar as tears sprung from his eyes. "Duke, are you okay?" 

"No!" He clenched his fists in the cushions and pulled, like he was trying to tear them apart. "Why didn't you take care of me? Why'd you just leave me behind?" The tears were coming fast now, and with them a healthy load of snot. Audrey grabbed for a box of tissues as he continued to wail. "Why does _everybody_ leave me behind?!" 

Audrey's heart broke for this boy. She knew just what he was feeling, had felt it herself over and over, growing up in the foster system. She didn't tell him to quiet down. Didn't tell him it was okay. Didn't know why, instead of explaining that she didn't know him, that she hadn't realized at the crime scene that he was homeless, she simply said "I'm sorry, Duke." 

She had no idea why she felt like she was really at fault. 

Duke sniffed, wiping his face on his filthy sleeve. "I don't wanna go back," he said quietly, his shoulders heaving. "Everything's different now, but I don't want to go back to the barn. It's too bright there. It hurts." Audrey frowned, wondering if maybe Duke was a kidnapping victim rather than a runaway like she'd though — and then he said " _Please,_ Lucy." 

"Duke." Audrey leaned forward, pressing the box of tissues into his lap. "My name is Audrey. Audrey Parker." 

She wouldn't have thought it possible, but his face crumpled even further. His breathing dissolved into alternating hiccups and sobs, and he twisted in his seat to press his face into the cushions. Audrey didn't look forward to explaining the snot stains to Nathan or the Chief. 

"Who's Lucy?" she asked gently, when his tears seemed to have slowed enough to let him speak again. "I must look like her, right? If you tell me about her, maybe I can help you find her. She must be missing you, too." 

Duke shook his head, moaning something into the cushions. Audrey hesitated, then decided to take a risk. 

"I have one more question, okay?" she asked. "But first I need to show you something." 

Duke nodded after a moment, and pushed himself up with a shaky arm. Audrey handed him the Colorado Kid clipping. Duke looked at it, then threw it away with a full body shudder. Audrey picked it back up, but didn't try to show it to him again yet. 

"The woman in the picture," she said. "Is that Lucy?" 

Duke nodded. 

"And the boy next to her." She tapped the grainy photo, pointing to the blurry image of the kid holding Lucy's hand. "That's you?" 

Duke nodded again. 

Audrey looked at the clipping, at the date under the headline, then back up at Duke. "You're 35," she whispered. Duke turned huge, red rimmed eyes on her when she laughed. "I'm sorry, Duke. It's not funny. It's just — you're maybe the first honest person I've met in this town. And you're a time traveling, homeless orphan!" 

Duke's lips twitched, torn between laughter and tears. "Sounds like you're kinda —" He hiccuped and finished his sentence on a broken squeak. "— Fucked."

Audrey nodded, and laughed until she cried.


	6. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW SO THIS TOOK AWHILE. There are a few reasons for that, some personal, some story-related, but I have a rough draft of the last chapter ready to go, and it should post on Halloween. 
> 
> In the meantime, have brief little treat to tide you over. . . . .

No one noticed the reverend was there until he spoke. 

"The boy is mine," he said, smirking fiercely at the gathered group. "His father and I knew this day may come, though we prayed it would not. He entrusted the boy's care to _me_." 

"Yeah?" the coroner asked. "Well. You gotta find him first." 

They turned as one to look, and sure enough, the boy was gone. The blanket he'd been wrapped in lay heaped on the back of the ambulance. He'd slipped away, with no one the wiser. 

The detective found him by morning. And lost him again by afternoon. And found him, and lost him, and found him and lost him, again and again over the course of a week. All of eight years old, the boy was already a master of escape. Of running. 

In the meantime, the boy's father's will had been found. In the event that the boy should be orphaned, it read, guardianship would pass to the Reverend Edmund Driscoll. 

It could be fought, the detective knew. He'd already fought for one boy in court and won, rescuing his wife's young son from his demon of a father by the skin of his teeth. But it wasn't easy. It was an uphill battle, even with a marriage firmly in place. And it wasn't as though they could argue the importance of the boy's trouble, the danger of it, in court. 

The only thing for it was to prove the boy wasn't an orphan. 

The detective picked up the phone, called the reporter. The brothers. The coroner. Between the five of them, it should be easy to find the boy's mother. 

She was a piece of work. Unfit in every way to be a parent. If running was hereditary, it was clear where the boy had gotten his knack. But the reverend couldn't take the boy, so long as he wasn't orphaned. And above all else, the reverend could not be allowed to take the boy. 

Who knew where they'd be in 27 years if he did.


	7. Driscoll

He was sitting in Jennifer's seat. 

That was ridiculous. This was a waiting room. There were no assigned seats in a waiting room, even in a psychiatrist's office. Even though one of the big things people used to manage the issues they went to see psychiatrists for was establishing and maintaining a routine. Like, say, always sitting in the second chair from the window, where she could see the skyline and the sunlight but not the street. Where she could watch the clouds and birds without getting distracted with people watching, because clouds and birds were soothing and people _weren't_. 

Clouds and birds, for instance, almost never stole your seat. And they didn't lurk in the back of your head, setting off every 'I know this person' alarm, for no apparent reason. 

_Where did she know him from?_

He drummed his fingers on the arm rest, a sign of jittery nerves boiling through despite the casual way he slouched in his seat. Maybe he needed the clouds and birds more than Jennifer did, today. 

"First time?" She sat in the fourth chair from the window, close enough to strike up a conversation without losing that ever important buffer chair between them that would keep things from getting awkward. He glanced up and offered her a wan smile. 

"Guess so." 

Jennifer smiled back and realized with a start that she had no idea what to say next. She hadn't tried to talk to someone she didn't already know in months. She wasn't entirely sure what had made her decide to do so right now.

Except maybe to figure out why he was so damn familiar. 

She opened her mouth and made an "ah" sound, preparing to spit out whatever ridiculous inanity happened to pop into her head, when he started to speak at the same time. They both broke off and laughed, both gestured for the other person to speak first. Then they both sat in awkward silence for a moment, waiting for the other to make a move. 

Buffer chairs could only do so much.

Finally, he spoke. 

"What are you in for?" 

Jennifer shrugged, putting on a show of nonchalance. Establishing her cred as an abnormal psych therapy veteran. "Schizophrenia," she said, like that was no big deal. Instead of the sort of thing they made thrillers about. "I hear voices." 

"Really." His smile widened — genuinely, she was sure — and that nagging sense that she knew him from somewhere faded just a bit. Maybe he just had a look about him when he wasn't smiling. An 'oh god, I've gone crazy, what now?' look. She saw that look plenty, these days. "What do they say?" 

Jennifer's eyes drifted over to the window. She could still see the clouds and birds from chair four. "Mostly they just kind of scream." 

"Wow." He winced in sympathy. "That really sucks." 

"Mmhm." Jennifer kicked her heels on her chair, her own display of boiling nerves. Maybe she should have lied. She usually lied. "What about you? What are you 'in for'?" 

"Swimming." 

Jennifer blinked. That was a new one. "Swimming?" 

He spread his hands and nodded. 

"Were you naked in a stranger's bathtub at the time?" 

"Ah." He held up a finger. "I was not. I was maybe trespassing. But I was fully clothed." 

"How do you 'maybe trespass'?" 

"I don't actually know." He grimaced. "Hence. . . ." He gestured broadly, encompassing the whole room. 

So some sort of fugue state. Jennifer had read about those. She'd been reading about a lot of abnormal psych these days. That definitely explained why he was here. 

She jerked upright. It also explained why he was so familiar. "You're the Seal Tank Sailor!" 

He hissed through his teeth, rubbing his forehead. She couldn't blame him; it was an awful name. She would have come up with something _much_ better if she'd covered the story. 

"You've heard of me," he said. 

"Yeah." She offered him a little apologetic bounce of her shoulders. "I have a lot of spare time on my hands lately. And I'm kind of a newshound. I used to work at the Globe, actually. You know, before the, uh." She tapped her temple. "Screaming." 

She turned sideways in her chair, pulling her knees in so she wouldn't be tempted to keep kicking, and looked him up and down. She was dying to investigate. She hadn't investigated anything but her own psychosis in ages. "Is it true?" she asked. "You really don't remember _anything?_ " 

He shook his head. "I remember plenty. I know what year it is, who's president. What the Globe is and what seals are. How to talk and eat and dress myself." He gestured to his clothes, which looked like they'd been pulled out of the bottom of a church lost and found. Considering he hadn't even had identification on him when he was dragged out of the seal tank at the aquarium, it was entirely possible that they _had_. "I just don't remember anything about _me_." 

"So a kind of retrograde amnesia." Jennifer whistled softly. "Due to trauma, I'm guessing, if you're here and not on the neuro ward at Mass Gen." 

"That's what they tell me," he agreed. "I'm not, you know, injured or anything. Just — can't remember anything from before I hit the water." 

Jennifer made up her mind. Right there on the spot. She had a gut instinct about this guy, and screaming voices in her head aside, she knew better than to ignore her gut. "I'm going to help you." 

"Um," he said. "I mean. The cops are already on it. They fingerprinted me and everything. They haven't found anything yet, but they said something about DMV records. . . ?" 

Jennifer shook her head. "That's fine. They can look, too. But having a trained investigative journalist on the case can't hurt, can it?"

"I guess not?" He looked her over, just a quick up and down with the eyes. She knew she didn't look like much, more like a college co-ed than a hardened reporter. She hadn't pulled on her pencil skirts or her blazer in ages. "I don't even know your name." 

"You don't know your own name, either," Jennifer pointed out. He laughed. 

"Touche." 

She stuck out her hand. "Jennifer Mason. Amatuer gumshoe." 

"John Doe." 

He had nice hands, she noticed, with long, graceful fingers, soft and sparingly callused. He didn't do a lot of manual labor, then, or hadn't in awhile, anyway. Maybe he was an academic? Or a layabout, she supposed. The idle rich, driven insane by the loss of his fortune. . . .

She was getting ahead of herself. 

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Doe," she said. "This is going to be great." 

"The voices tell you that?" 

"I told you." Jennifer made a face. "All they do is scream. And sometimes say names." 

"Spooky." He tilted his head. "Any good ones? I don't think 'John' really suits me." 

"It doesn't," Jennifer agreed. "But you don't really look much like an Audrey, either." 

Was it her imagination? Or did something flicker behind his eyes at that name? If it did, it was gone now. Jennifer wasn't sure he'd even noticed it himself. 

Curiouser and curiouser. 

"Sounds classy as hell," he was saying, shaking his head. "But yeah, I think I'd probably get even more stares if I started going by that one. John it is, then. For now."   
"For now." Jennifer dug into her purse. "Do you have a phone? I should get your number." 

He nodded. "There's a phone at the halfway house they stuck me in." He pulled a little slip of paper from his shirt pocket, like something torn off a pocket notebook, just large enough for a phone number and a name. "This is probably the oddest way anyone's ever asked for my phone number." 

Jennifer snorted as he passed her the paper and she started punching the number into her phone. "That you know of." 

He laughed. "Hey, I did say 'probably'." 

The door to the offices opened and one of the therapists leaned out. "Mr. Doe?" 

He stood up, and Jennifer took the opportunity to look him over as she handed back his number. He was tall and lean, dressed in mismatched blacks, his pants barely brushing his ankles. Scruffy in a slightly careless way, like he had bigger things to worry about than shaving. Which made sense, considering. He didn't have any ink that she could see, and no distinctive scars or anything, at least that wasn't covered by clothing, but he was wearing a silver pendant. Some sort of saint medallion, she guessed. She'd have to rewatch the footage of his arrest at the aquarium when she got home, see if he'd had that before, or if it was given to him by some priest or a social worker in the last few weeks. 

She wondered if there was anyone out there in the world who missed him. 

He paused by the door, looking back over his shoulder, and offered her a small smile. "I'll see you around, Jennifer Mason." 

She smiled back. "You bet you will, John Audrey Doe." 

There it was again. That flicker. Something whispered at the back of her brain as the door closed behind him, but she shoved it ruthlessly down. She needed a project. Something useful to do. 

Whatever was going on with John Doe, it had to be better than watching CNN all day, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I'm terrible at writing Duke being deliberately evil. That was a major blocker for getting this last bit written. Like, I knew I wanted to do a Driscoll chapter, but trying to knock it into shape was SUCH A PAIN. . . . 
> 
> Other potential scenarios for this one included: Duke taking over the Good Shepherd after Audrey shoots the Rev. Duke finding Jennifer in Boston and posing as a blind date to get close to her, with the Guard swooping in to save her from his clutches. The Guard finding Jennifer in Boston and posing as a blind date, and Duke swooping in to save her from their clutches. 
> 
> This is the only one that didn't end up with big Xs drawn through the text every time I started trying to write it. GIMME THAT SWEET, SWEET AMBIGUITY!


End file.
